PS 


^5\3 


.t95J(o 


1910 






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Class 

Book__^ 

Gopyright^^. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



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JOAN of ARC 

MONOLOGUE 

BY 

FLORENCE 1. GETTNER 



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COPYRIGHT 1910 BY 

FLORENCE I. GETTNER 

PITTSBURGH. PA. 

■ME BROCKETT PRESS 




©CI.A259971 



JOAN of ARC 



By FLORENCE I. GETTNER 



Copyright, 1910, by Florence I. Gettner. 




was night in the city of Rouen; the 
moon shone down in silent majesty 
VUi/ I upon the sleeping city. It shone 
^^^p into the council chamber of the arch 
=^^==b bishop's palace where Warwick and 
Couchon had ju^ signed the edict for the 
burning of the young maid, Joan of Arc. It 
shone into the ball room of the Burgundian 
palace where fair women and gallant knights 
w^ere staking jewels, gloves and bon bons upon 
the fate of her whom they jeeringly called "The 
Maid of God" It shone into a lonely prison 
cell where a young girl lay sleeping, in her in- 
nocent dreaming, forgetting the placard above 
the iron door of her cell— "Joan of Arc, the 
Maid of God" 



4 JOAN of ARC. 

Is it the moonlight's deceptive gleam 
That shines on that child-like face? 
Ah, no! She smiles in a happy dream 
Of a mother's fond embrace, 
Of the days when she tended her 

gentle sheep 
On the hillsides wild and free, 
And vsrandered at will, through the 

fore^s deep 
To the shade of the "Fairies' Tree." 
To the "Paries' Tree" where the 

Voices abode, 
And beckoned and called her name, 
And spoke of the soldiers, whose 

blood had flow^ed 
To lift France from her grave of shame. 
Where St. Michael fir^ lifted his 

fiery sword, 
And his Voice spoke ^rong and clear: 
"Draw near, Oh Maid, and hear the 

word 
Of God; be ^rong nor fear. 
Joan, Joan of Arc; God's messenger 

thou art. 
Prince Charles, the Dauphin, the 

rightful heir 



JOAN of ARC. 5 

Trembling, nigh conquered, he's 

at Rheims; depart 
By might of God and sword, his 
kingship thou declare." 

"Oh, Holy Voice, I'm but a Maid, 
Don Remy's shepherdess, 
I dare not go, I am afraid. 
Oh, pity my distress." 
"Joan, Joan of Arc, thy commission is 

of God; nor fear 
St. Catherine and St. Margaret, these two 

shall be thy aid. 
Ride, ride to M. de Bandicourt, 

captain at Vancouleurs, 
He'll conduct thee to the king and 
say: "Here is the Maid!" 

* * * * * 

Now in the face of the sleeping girl 
The moonlight reveals a change. 
She dreams of the court and its 

merry whirl 
To the shepherdess maid, so strange. 
Of the doubt in the face of the 

courtiers there 
As Bandicourt spoke with the king. 
How her simple beauty won smile 



6 JOAN of ARC. 

or stare 
As she told how the Voices would 

ring. 
And how^ the king, convinced, at 

last. 
Had lifted her from her knees, and then 
Her lonely heart, beat doubly fa^ 
When he promised her horses 

and men! 
When he gave her a suit of armour 

to wear 
And a pure white steed to ride, 
Then he spoke to her soldiers; "To 

God's Maid so fair 
Swear allegiance! By her word 

abide. 
For she is the deliverer of our poor 

France; 
Appointed by God on high, 
Taught by Voices to retreat or advance." 
And their loud cheers rent the 

sky. 
And they loved her, these soldiers 
So coarse and grim. 
With a love, pure, holy and sw^eet, 
And they'd follow her gladly till 



JOAN of ARC. 

eyes were dim 
With sleep, and aching their 
feet. 

* * * * * 

At la^, one night in camp, as 

she prayed 
A great Hght shone far and near. 
'Twas St. Michael who said, "Be not 

dismayed 
The day of battle is here! 
Advance, in the name of Jehovah, 

advance 
To the city of Orleans, and there 
Surrounded by English, the braved 

of France 
Lie besieged; for thy safety have no 

care. 
Thy time is not yet." And all 

thought of fear 
As by magic, left the Maid, 
And her soul was filled with 

heavenly zeal 
As she turned to the soldiers and 

said: 
"On, on for God, the king and France! 
On, on my braved of the brave. 



8 JOAN of ARC. 

To besieged Orleans, with sword 

and lance, 
Follow to Vidtory or the grave." 
An angel she seemed to her 

men at arms; 
One who would never tire. 
She rode like a goddess through 

battles' harms, 
And her courage set hearts 

on fire. (Musk— The "Marseille") 

And when to Orleans they came at 

la^. 
Like a fury she fought and fought 
One ba^ile, then another, in confusion 

she ca^. 
Not a troop could rally from her 

onslaught. 
In the thick of the battle w^here 

arrow^s flew fa^e^ 
Rode the Maid of God, to encourage 

or entreat. 
They fought as inspired to follow 

her cre^. 
Until the English dismayed, 

sounded—" Retreat." 
Then into the city — the free city — 



JOAN of ARC. 

she rode, 
And the poor besieged people 

hung on each smile and glance 
And cried, "Hurrah! Hurrah! the 

Maid of God! 
On, on to Rheims! We'll crown 

Charles, King of France!" {Music ceases) 

•X- * * * * 

A moment and the Maid more 

peaceful seems, 
A sweet, serious smile is on her 

face. 
Again of king and court she dreams, 
Of her triumphant entry into the place. 
How^, after the Coronation, she saluted 

her King, 
And kissing his robe said: "It is done! 
My task is completed — God has made 

thee a king! 
For thee 'tis to finish the work I've 

begun." 
When out spoke the King, "My brave 

captain, not so, 
France would be England's vassal 

were it not for thee. 
To the city of Compeigne I bid thee go, 



10 JOAN of ARC. 

The city of all France deare^ to me, 
Warwick, my enemy, has here his 

^ronghold. 
You and your picked soldiers, a 

god fearing band. 
You alone can conquer him, Warv/ick 

the bold!" 
"My King I am your subjedt; 'tis yours 

to command. 
I have but followed my Voices; all to them 

you owe. 
Now St. Michael is silent. 'Tis St. 

Margaret who speaks. 
She whispers of loved ones at home, to 

them 1 mu^ go. 
Dismiss me. Oh King, for I'm but a 

Maid. 
I did not conquer Orleans; the Voices, 

'twere they. 
They have deserted me. Oh, I'm strangely 

afraid. 
They point to Don Remy, I dare not 

disobey." 
So between conscience and King a 

fierce battle she fought. 
Dimly conscious of grim disa^er ahead. 



JOAN of ARC. 1 1 

Until the traitor Couchon, on her 

patriotism wrought, 
And the troops marched to Compeigne 

by Joan or Arc led. 
All through the march Couchon 

rode by her side, 
Couchon the deposed captain,who 

hated the Maid. 
His treacherous heart was light all 

through the ride. 
For he had sold out to the English 

and w^as not afraid. 
And Joan was filled with a nameless 

fright. 
The Voices were silent; though she 

fervently prayed. 
Until St. Michael appeared on the 

very last night. 
"Joan, Joan of Arc, thou hast my 

Voice disobeyed. 
The offence is thine. Thou alone 

must pay, 
To the French great Victory shall be 

given, 
But thou to the English, Couchon 

will betray." 



12 JOAN of ARC 

And meekly bowed Joan to the 

will of heaven. 
Bravely she fought through the 

long dreadful day, 
The English fought fiercely; the 

arrow^s flew^ fast, 
Until Joan, always in the thick of 

the fray 
Swaying blindly, fell wounded 

from her horse at last. 
And w^hen consciousness came to 

the Maid again, 
Her soul woke to joy; the French had 

forced the gate. 
The English were fleeing, both horses 

and men. 
And she staggered for safety ere it 

w^ouid be too late. 
But her wound was so great, she 

could not move from the place. 
She wavered feebly and was caught 

by some fleeing one's arm. 
One look was enough— that was 

an English face. 
She was a prisoner. Oh, God! would no 

one raise the alarm? 



i 



1 



JOAN of ARC 13 

A brutal laugh answered the moan 

breathed so low, 
The triumphant shout of the English, 

the last thing she knew. 
Then followed weeks in prison. Did 

no one know 
Of the prisoner there midst that motley 

crew^? 
The Voices, where were they? The King, 

w^here w^as he? 
He didn't know; he surely could not 

know. 
He would send all the soldiers of 

France to set her free! 
And her heart with courage and hope 

began to glow. 

^t # * * *■ 

The moon shining in through 

the bars of the place, 
Over the head of the Maid formed 

a halo of light. 
It cast a soft radiance on her 

agonized face 
As she dreams of the trial; how for 

many a night 
They tried to confuse the poor tortured 



14 JOAN of ARC. 

brain 
And make her admit that her Voices 

had hed. 
How her answers confused them 

again and again, 
A sweet reason she had for each 

question they phed, 
Until out spoke one of that traitorous 

band, 
Ah, yes! 'twas Couchon, whom she had 

trusted so well. 
"She did follow the Voices; this 

you must understand. 
But were they from Heaven? No, from 

the depths of Hell! 
A Grange, mystic pow^er, she 

weilds over men, 
A wiley sorceress she, in grim 

Satan's hire. 
Joan dead, the English will conquer, 

not till then. 
Cleanse the world of this witch! Cleanse 

it by fire!" 
A few moments they wrangled, and 

then it was done. 
The Edidl went forth. The World's 



JOAN of ARC 15 

great mistake! 
Tomorrow morn, at rise of the sun, 
Joan, the witch, shall be burned 

at the ^ake." 

^e- * * * * 

And now^ the door of her cell is 

thrown wide, 
A group of malicious faces look into 

the place. 
A grim brutal soldier comes to her 

side, 
And waking her roughly, laughs in 

her face. 
She rises painfully bewildered to her 

feet. 
What can this mean? Oh, she knows 

at la^! 
The King has sent soldiers. Liberty 

will be sweet! 
How^ she will thank him! She'll 

ride sure and fa^ 
To tell him how she knew help 

would come. 
Yet, the faces are dreadful, not pleasant 

to see. 
One look freezes her senses, makes 



16 JOAN of ARC. 

every limb numb. 
What is it they say? "Free, yes, my 

beauty, you'll be free!" 
Then she hears the edid:. — A gasp, 

a moan, and then 
In rigid silence ^ands, not a move 

does she make. 
She waits until the cell is cleared 

of the men, 
Then sinks to her knees. "Oh, God! 

to be burned at the stake! 
Oh, it is cruel, horrible! It is not my 

fate! 
St. Michael, St. Catherine, St. Margaret 

come to me now. 
Oh, send soldiers or death ere it is 

too late! 
What harm have I done, that King 

Charles should allow^ 
This terrible crime? Oh, this is a horrible, 

horrible dream, 
ril waken soon, at home in my bed. 
And God's free sunshine will bathe me 

in its gleams. 
And my sheep will be bleating, impatient 

to be fed. 



JOAN of ARC. 1 7 

Yet, these chains, those bars! Oh, God 

it is true! 
Still it was the Voice; it did come to 

inspire. 
I did disobey. Oh, Holy Voice, if my 

hours are few. 
Send any death but the fire— not the 

fire! 
Oh, they'll lead me forth bound, like 

a devil sent witch. 
And the mad mob will hiss and they'll 

fight and they'll sneer; 
How they'll laugh with delight when 

my poor tortured limbs twitch, 
As the red flame comes creeping, comes 

creeping so near! 
Oh, God in Heaven, look down in thy 

love. 
My sin has been great, but I'm only 

a Maid. 
Send help, if not from France, from 

St. Michael above. 
I'm so young to die— Oh, God, I'm atfraid! 

What's this? A melody divine, sweet 
and low. 



18 JOAN of ARC. 

Comes creeping into my heart, bringing 

peace. 
'Tis St. Margaret; at la^ I see, I know 
This is my Dehverance! 'Twill be sweet 

release. 
My Voices, I hear; they are with 

me now, 
They soothe my frightened spirit in 

peace to lie. 
To the will of Jehovah, I meekly 

w^ill bow^, 
A martyr to France— I am ready to die." 

{^^usic ceases.) 

* * ¥r ¥r ^ 

And when next morning, to the cell 

soldiers came. 
They fell back in confusion, inspired 

w^ith aw^e; 
For willingly, smilingly, exultingly 

she came. 
Little they knew of the angels she saw, 
And the Voices she heard as she was 

led through the street. 
And even the mad mob stood abashed 

and aw^ed, 
As they gazed on her face, so peaceful 



JOAN of ARC 19 

and sweet, 
And murmured: "*Tis true, she was 

sent from God." 
And even at the end, her face did 

not blanch; 
Those w^ho came to scoff, returned 

to laud. 
Unafraid, alone, this martyr of France, 
Sent her pure virgin soul to meet 

its God. 




APR 



1910 



■■■/• ,k.. 



